


Patterns That Remain

by cardwrecks



Series: Attack of the Vampire Mobsters [2]
Category: Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Half-Vampires, M/M, Mobsterswitch, Vampire mobsters, Vampires, ace dick is old as balls, prequel i guess, several jumps in time, this is still a confusing au, tired immortal bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15422310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardwrecks/pseuds/cardwrecks
Summary: In the village where I grew up, nothing seems the same! Still, you never see the change from day to day...





	Patterns That Remain

The first time you meet him, he's young and beautiful and human. That's rare in your profession, but not unheard of. Sometimes the monsters you hunt take a fancy to someone and give them a little trial run before they make them into beasts like themselves. It might have been a mercy for you to kill him, but in many ways you were young yourself back then.

 

And anyway, you had your _ideals_ then, which would have stopped you.

 

As if killing monsters meant you weren't one. As if humans couldn't be monsters in their own right.

 

You've learned better, since then.

 

* * *

 

The second time you meet him, he's newly dead and very dangerous. You can tell because he's killed his sire. He's still drenched in the blood when you find him, slick and red like a newborn, his eyes wide and bright and his teeth sharp as knives. He breaks through the bedroom window and you let him get away.

 

You blame it on your nerves. After all, you hadn't expected to find the Malevolent Kingbreaker already dead, let alone naked and ripped to shreds on his own bed by his own spawn's hand.

 

* * *

 

The third time you meet him, you actually get to talk to him. This was back in the age of the grand empires, two years before the great war broke out. Somewhere deep inside themselves, everyone knew war was on the horizon, but no one had any conception of what it would look like. There had never been a war like that before.

 

Peccant Scofflaw was dancing the night away at elegant balls in an old, nearly-civilized city by the ocean, styling himself as a roguish count of the furthest province. But you knew better. You knew the real count was dead and Scofflaw was simply wearing his clothes and title. You had hunted Scofflaw all the way from that frozen wasteland to this decadent city.

 

Your name is the Avenging Dhampir, and you've been tracking the Peccant Scofflaw for a long, long time.

 

You approach Scofflaw at the old chateau belonging to one of his would-be girlfriends, where unfortunately you make quite a stir. You'd slipped in using your old connections, but once again unfortunately, they're a bit older than you remember.

 

 _He_ notices you.

 

He notices you, and goes out of his way to find you.

 

You're watching for him in the ballroom when a hand taps on your shoulder, and there he is. He offers you a hand and his too-bright smile. “...you must be the man I've heard so much about,” he says, grinning, but his eyes are narrowed and green. He knows who you really are.

 

You frown at him. “...could say the same about you.”

 

“Oh, I hope you will-” Scofflaw laughs, “I simply _adore_ being heard about. Only good things, I hope.”

 

He winks at you, that utter bastard.

 

“Come,” He insists, before you can say anything else. “Dance with me.”

 

“Absolutely _not_ ,” You hiss at him. His smile flattens into a smirk sharp enough to slip between your ribs.

 

“But you came all this way," He wines, _"_ It would be inhospitable of me to allow you to leave without a single dance.” His smile has only proceeded to degrade. He actually _licks his_ _lips_.

 

“Next time.” You acquiesce.

 

He considers this. Nods. “...next time."

 

He bows, smiling up at you, and then melts back into the dancing crowd.

 

The next heartbeat you see him bending a duchess over backwards. She laughs, high and breathlessly.

 

He is a good dancer.

 

The next morning, he's already left the city.

 

* * *

 

The fourth time you see him, the war has been going badly for six years, and you're not hunting him this time. He's wearing an officer's uniform. You're not sure he actually earned it, but you doubt it. Either way, it's the same uniform as the one you're wearing, and for some reason, that means something.

 

“Funny, meeting you like this.” Scofflaw says, as if you were old friends who had simply fallen out of touch and meeting again by coincidence on holiday. As if you didn't have a pistol to his head. As if he didn't have fascist blood on his mouth.

 

“...yeah,” you admit. It _is_ kind of funny.

 

“Friend of yours?” Scofflaw asks, motioning to the dead man slumped against the wall.

 

He's wearing the wrong uniform. You sneer. “... _hardly_.”

 

Scofflaw shrugs. “...they all taste the same.” His black officer's hat is tilted down across his face, casting shadows over his bright green eyes. “Doesn't matter what colors they're wearing." A smile tugs up across his lips. "...but I bet _you_ taste different.”

 

“You're welcome to try me.” You reply, cocking the pistol.

 

His smile is mild. “Maybe next time. I've got shit to do.”

 

“And why would I let you leave?”

 

“Oh, you won't.” Scofflaw admits, “But you won't have a choice.”

 

You glance over your shoulder in time to take a set of claws to the face.

 

“Avenging Dhampir, meet Heinous Doxy. Doxy, this is the vampire hunter I was telling you about.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you.” Doxy purrs, offering her hand to Scofflaw.

 

His eyes are locked on you as he takes her hand in his, greeting her with a kiss to her fingers. She smiles as he drags his tongue between her digits, sucking your blood from her nails.

 

Belatedly, you recognize her. “...duchess,” You murmur, and she smiles so bright. It's _his_ smile on her face. You wonder if she came by it naturally -if he found someone else like himself- or if he broke her and put her back together in his image. Just like his own sire tried to do. You've heard the stories.

 

“Unfortunately,” He says, letting her hand go and sliding his arm about her waist, “We _do_ have to go. Doxy and I have a date. I'm sure you understand...”

 

Your own blood is dripping into your eyes. You cannot chase them like this.

 

“...next time,” you growl.

 

Scofflaw's smile tilts.

 

“Next time,” he agrees, warm as a shot to the chest.

 

* * *

 

Next time, the fifth time, he finds you in the new century. You're stationed in a dive bar in an ancient city that changes names and nations every couple of months. You're finally coming to terms with the fact that the “war to end all wars” was kind of oversold when he sits down next to you.

 

“If you're gonna sit, you gotta order something.” You tell him.

 

“Hello to you too, AD.” He sighs, leaning his cheek into his folded hands.

 

“No drink, no seat.” You growl.

 

Scofflaw snorts, “You never hear of politeness?”

 

“Heard of it. Got no use for it. Order, or leave.”

 

“Fine,” He snaps, motioning to the bartender, “Get me, uh.. whatever you use that for,” and he points to the tomato juice.

 

The barkeep gives you a look.

 

“Yeah, whatever.”

 

He gets to work, and Scofflaw returns to bothering you. “Don't you even wanna know why I'm here?”

 

You roll your eyes up at him. “...why?”

 

“Why, what?”

 

“Why,” you turn to him, enunciating each word, “ _should I care?_ ”

 

Scofflaw rears back, eyebrows folded in what is obvious offense. “Haven't you been chasing me all this time? You were there, back then. When I... when I first... turned.”

 

“I was chasing _him_. Your _sire._ I didn't give a shit about _you._ ”

 

He looks like he's about to explode. His nostrils flare, his eyes are pinpricks, his teeth are grit. He is the picture of blanched fury.

 

Then, he laughs.

 

“Of course! _Of course!_ ” He exclaims, through his own laughter. He slams his hand down on the bar and grins at you. It's that same smile as it's always been, but worse. Somehow, it's managed to become even worse with time. Tarnished.

 

It's the eyes. He's never looked quite so desperate before.

 

He continues raving on, “Yes! _Why not?_ After everything, all this time, here we are – and it meant _nothing_ . It was _all. Because. Of_ _**him** _ _._ ”

 

“...yep,” You agree, tilting your glass to agitate the ice chip in your scotch.

 

“ _Bullshit_.” He snarls, “You followed me, after. I gave you the slip back in the old country, and you stalked me all the way to the Capitol. It was only because of the war that I lost you.”

 

You snort, “Yeah, and you took that dame with you. How'd that turn out?”

 

He doesn't immediately answer. His drink arrives, garnished with skewered olives and cocktail onions, and he wrinkles his nose.

 

“...what even is this?”

 

You stare down into your drink. “...Bloody Mary.”

 

His surprised bark of laughter is so genuine it startles you.

 

* * *

 

You don't really mean to spend so long catching up with him, but it's rare to meet people with the same kind of lived experience as you. Sure, there are plenty of soldiers reeling from the new, shattered world that's given birth to art and music and sex and decadence, and plenty of people are looking to the horizon with an eye for disaster, but how many of them can remember the way the sky looked before factories began to pour their coal-encrusted phlegm into the air? Who recalls a world before the map's edges were all filled in?

 

And after a while, familiar faces are just... familiar.

 

* * *

 

Of course you fuck him. He's eager to please, which you might have found surprising once upon a time. But you've been around long enough that you see his enthusiasm for what it is. He is desperate for some sense of purpose.

 

“I've been thinking about trying on the New World.” He says, when the dawn is breaking somewhere beyond your firmly closed shutters. He's on his back, utterly naked, his legs spread and lips bruised. The color on his cheeks almost makes him look alive.

 

You mouth a grunt around your cigar.

 

He checks to make sure you're looking at him before adding, “Lots of opportunity there, for a man to make a name for himself.”

 

“Last thing a guy like you should want is a name.” You reply, “Guys like me go looking for guys like you with names.”

 

“...would you come looking for me, then?” He asks.

 

You let the question hang there for a moment. He doesn't even bother to look ashamed. Posed on the hotel linens, his chest still as marble, his eyes gleaming with inscrutable intent. You roll over on to him and let the ash from your cigar fall onto his throat. He doesn't even flinch.

 

“Maybe.” You say.

 

He smiles. It's all teeth.

 

* * *

 

Your mother told you that you were born to fight evil and to protect humankind.

 

Your father told you that you were doomed to walk a lonely path, neither entirely human nor vampire.

 

You would have preferred it if they had talked to each other about whether or not they had the same expectations for their relationship. You tell yourself that just wasn't the kind of thing people spoke about back then.

 

* * *

 

The next time you see him, he's picked up an incredibly stupid accent, and he's back with that woman.

 

You tell yourself you don't really care. That you weren't here for him anyway. But you've known yourself for a very long time, and shit like that doesn't fool you anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> once again i find myself in this ridiculous place while wrestling _catching bullets_ to the ground. short, and not really sexytimes, but i hope you enjoy nonetheless. 
> 
> i'm [cardwrecks](http://www.cardwrecks.tumblr.com) over on turmnbler if you wanna chat about vampires and/or mobsters.


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